Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He runs, because it’s the only thing he comes up with.

His feet thump against the wet ground, his arms swipe at drooping leaves. At one point, he has to smear his hand across the glass of his exopack to get rid of the water. His heart’s like a big massive war drum in his ears. Someone could be screaming for him and he wouldn’t hear it. 

He ignores the cold rain against his shoulders and chest, and hops over a protruding root.

His chest is heaving weirdly. And his nose is, annoyingly, stuffed. He must be crying, but he can’t hear it. His cheeks are cold from dried tears, but more work their way past his eyelashes and turn the forest around him into a smear of green and brown. 

He knows these trees better than any of the science guys back ho– back in…Hell’s Gate. He was raised here. He knows exactly where to put his feet, what patches of ground to avoid, what branches to use to climb higher and which will send him straight back down again. 

But his own emotions have it out for him. Through his tears, he doesn’t notice the wet bit of moss until his heel digs into it. 

His body jolts, and tips forward so suddenly that he has barely enough time to lift his arms. Protecting his mask as he slips sideways. 

His shoulder and hip bang against the ground, and his head bounces hard enough to rattle his brain against his skull. 

He doesn’t even roll when he lands, just stays on his side, a little surprised at his own clumsiness. He should be getting up by now and brushing himself down. But he can’t; something in him finds it really comfy down here in the cold mud. 

He needs to keep going. 

Norm’s rolled down a hill and came out laughing, why is this tiny trip up making him want to sink further into the ground? Why is he crying? It’s not like he’s broken anything so why–

Spider sniffles, and digs the edge of his mask into the ground. More tears spill over his cheeks, and his lip itches. But his hands only twitch, his shoulder and hip throbbing weakly. He can’t wipe his face, he can’t push himself up. He can’t do anything.  

There’s a reason he needs to keep going, he knows there is. But everything’s so jumbled and confused, and he just really wants to stay here. Why is he running in the first place? He has no idea. Something happened, that’s all he can remember. 

At least, right now. Maybe he’ll think about it again when he feels a bit more…human. 

At some point, seconds, minutes, maybe hours later, Spider feels the cold begin to get a bit much for him to handle. He’s shivering, teeth clacking violently. The outside of his mask is as wet as the inside, and through his hitching, tiny breaths, he makes out the plink plink plink of falling rain. 

He can remember, kinda, Max talking about these sort of sudden rains that fell in patches of forest. It was during one of their lessons, when Spider hadn’t been able to concentrate on Norm’s stupid maths questions, but was fascinated by the bits of information Max had on the world outside. 

They can come quick and fast, these showers. And can sometimes be destructive. If there’s a river nearby, it can add to the water, make it break free from its path and flood the forest around it. 

And Spider has no idea when the rain started. A river could be coming for him right now. 

He’s only small, even a tiny flood could drag him away. The idea of being swept up makes him cry a bit harder. He tries to get his hand to push himself up, but it just flops against the ground.  

Wouldn’t Kiri be sad if he went missing? He was meant to go with her and Neteyam to the Pa’li fields tomorrow. Without him as a buffer, they’ll bicker and fight until one of the warriors sends them away. 

And Max was gonna show him which foods he could eat with them, and which to avoid. So he could stay for supper. 

His neck is all stiff when he moves it to look for shelter. He has options; the underbrush of a bush, or that hollow in that tree which looks cosy…

He manages to get himself upright and stumbles over to the tree. He falls once, because his hip shouts at him about going too quickly, but manages to get himself into the trunk before the rain gets so loud it sounds like a raging river already. 

He can’t stand in his little hollow, but it’s just big enough for him to sit, drawing his knees to his chest and pushing back from the entrance. It’s dry, and kinda cosy. But his body still shakes with cold. He’ll need to head back soon if he doesn’t want to get sick…

No one would be able to take care of him. Mary’s stomach is beginning to get so big she’s not able to see her toes. Norm’s not really the caring type, and Max is always too busy. So it would just be Spider, locked in his room for days with nothing to interest him and no one to keep him company. 

And Nash…

He shies away from that thought. He’s never really gone to his foster father for anything like that. Not when he sometimes looks at Spider like he’s annoying. Or like a bit of mud stuck to his boot. 

He’ll wait for the rain to lessen, and then maybe he’ll try and find his way to Hometree. He could ask Mo’at for a small bit of medicine in exchange for mashing the plants and herbs that are brought in daily. He could sit next to the fire pit as he works, warm up a little, and then head back hom– to Hell’s Gate from there. 

His mood brightens at the idea, but shuffling over to the hole in his hideaway, his heart sinks at the unfamiliarity of the trees around him. 

He might not even be able to find Hometree at this point. He might be stuck here, until he’s found, or he goes hungry, or an animal finds him and decides he’d be a good snack. 

With a distant curiosity, Spider notices his fingers are now trembling. And not from the cold. His heart thumps against his chest; he’s gasping, loudly, and one hand scrabbles against his ribcage to keep everything from escaping. His other hand he brings to his head, and gives his hair a sharp tug. 

“Ow,” he whimpers, and pulls his hand away again. His eyes widen, and he turns his arm one way then the other.  

Around his wrist, nearly invisible through the gloom, a bruise spreads. It’s large, purple, and - if Spider squints - looks like a hand. He flexes it, and hisses at the dull pain that follows. 

It feels recent, but everything before his mad dash in the forest is so fuzzy that he can’t remember when he’d got it. It makes him feel a bit sick though, like he’s missing something big. 

With his free hand, he presses his own fingers against the imprint, but they’re too small. The bruises are adult size. They’re thin like Norm’s. 

And for a second, something clicks. He hears a voice in his head, but he can’t work out what it’s saying. It’s like Spider’s underwater, and the voice is speaking above him. It’s familiar in the way it makes Spider clutch his hand to his chest, and worries if he’s done something really wrong. 

His wrist twinges, Spider blinks, and the bruise is covered by a hand. Pale, with thin, scientist fingers. Soft and callous free, but strong enough to yank Spider along behind them. 

He blinks again, and the hand disappears but it’s enough. He shivers again, and ducks his head and hands into his chest. 

He’d been running in the lab again. Bored out of his skin from having to stay inside due to the rains and desperately wanting something to do. He’d grabbed the first datapad he’d spotted and hurried off to download an old video game from Earth or hunker down to watch the endless amounts of TV shows the residents of Hell’s Gate update every week. 

In his rush, because Norm and Max had been coming back from a lab session, he hadn’t noticed who’s pad he’d taken. Not until ten minutes through his episode, when Nash McCosker had started demanding to know who’d grabbed his datapad. 

Spider knows Nash’s temper and mood can be a bit tricky, but today he’d been really grumpy because his son (the real one) had decided to spend the entire night begging to be read to. He’d gotten into the kitchen’s cookie box, and asked Spider not to tell, and hadn’t been able to sleep until the eclipse began to wane.  

So that morning, the bags under Nash’s eyes had been a bit darker, and his temper a bit shorter. 

Which is when…

Spider ducks his head further into his knees, and tries to tamp down on his hitching breath. If he doesn’t, his exopack will run out of power. And then he’ll really be in trouble. 

He knows now; remembers why he was running. His wrist aches as if Nash’s hand is still wrapped around it. He hadn’t meant to take his datapad, he’d said through tear filled eyes. He’d been looking for Norm’s. 

He couldn’t remember exactly what Nash said, but it was something about being locked in his room for the rest of the day. He knew it was something horrible, because he’d struggled against Nash’s grip until he’d slipped from between his fingers. 

Spider remembers how his heart had squeezed in his chest as he went. No one called his name, not until he’d reached the inner door and scrambled through the airlock. 

He wonders, tucked away in his hideaway, did they even come outside to look for him? Or are they assuming that he’ll come back on his own, that he’s gone to visit the Sullys? 

Did anyone even notice that he’d been hurt? 

They’re lonely thoughts. They make his chest hurt, and Spider sniffles again to keep the snot from running. He tries to curl up tighter to avoid them, thinking of better things as the rain keeps beating his tree. After a few minutes of dragging his thoughts away from the throbbing of his wrist, gives up. 

He should inspect it again. Should even try to splint it if he can - he has loads of support options from his tree’s branches. But part of him really doesn’t want to; his neck is stiff, he’s comfy where he is, and disturbing it will make it worse. What if he can’t splint it using one hand? It’ll be all that effort resulting in nothing so why should be even try–

He does lift his head, slowly. Not because the more stubborn part of him won out. Because something echoed over the rainfall. He can’t see anything through the gloom outside his tree, so he sits as still and quiet as he can. 

“--der!” he hears, and Spider sits up on his knees. Wrapping cold, numb fingers around the edge of the hole in his tree to peer out. 

He still doesn’t recognise the trees, but he knows he recognises whoever’s shouting. He just won’t let his expectations jump yet. Not until–

“Spider!” 

He gives himself whiplash with how quickly he turns his head. He definitely knows that voice. His breath hitches in his chest, and his eyes fill with tears for the millionth time today. Seriously, he’s meant to be eight years old, he shouldn’t be crying like a big baby. That’s Lo’ak’s job. 

But Spider can’t help it, not when he finally sees someone break through the trees. A very familiar person. 

He’s scrambling over the lip of his hiding space before his brain can even catch up. The bark digs into the palm of his hands, his toes slip against the wet wood, and the awkward position twinges his wrist bad enough to make Spider yelp. 

He lands in a heap on the ground, his hip and shoulder smarting again, but he pushes himself up, whilst gritting his teeth. Just in time, too, because Jake hurries over at the sound of Spider’s less than graceful fall. 

“Spider!” Jake shouts, and through the still pouring rain, Spider can’t tell if he’s angry or relieved. He lands on his knees with a wet splat, and grabs hold of Spider’s shoulders. Yellow eyes doing a quick assessment. 

Spider tries to not melt into the warmth of his hands. He really does. 

“You alright?” Jake asks, and Spider has just enough brain left to nod. 

“Why’re you here?” he asks, wincing at the raspiness of his own voice.

A frown crosses Jake’s face. It doesn’t stay long, but it’s there when he says, “We were looking for you? Norm told us you’d run off this morning. That the science guys lost sight of you pretty quick.” 

Spider’s heart practically leaps in his chest, crashing into his throat and sticking there like a big rock. He feels Jake’s hands get a bit lighter against his shoulders as his eyes burn with tears. 

“Everyone’s been out searching all afternoon,” Jake says when Spider doesn’t say anything. He feels the tears spill over and run down his cheeks then. Jake’s fingers tighten. 

Usually, if it’s Kiri who cries, Jake’s immediately bundling her towards his chest. Wrapping his long arms over her shoulders and around her back. Hiding her from view. With Neteyam, Jake pats his head, or drags him into his side for a hug. Lo’ak cries all the time, and just clings to Jake like a spider-monkey until he’s calm or extricated away by Neytiri. 

But Spider’s never cried in front of him. So it kind of makes everything a bit…awkward. 

“It’s dangerous to be out here on your own,” Jake says, quietly, rubbing his thumbs against the edge of Spider’s collarbones. “You know that better than anyone. What would’ve happened if you’d slipped and cracked your mask, huh?” 

Spider nods, and squeezes his eyes shut to fight back his tears. It does nothing, and once again he wishes he could lift his mask to wipe at them. The snot on his upper lip is really starting to itch now. 

Through the darkness, he hears Jake sigh. “C’mon,” he says, patting Spider’s shoulders one last time. “Let’s get you back.” 

He sniffles, nods, and goes willingly. It’s too dark to be heading back to Hell’s Gate now, it could be hours away from here. Maybe, Spider thinks, Jake’s bringing him back to Hometree to wait out the eclipse. He stretches out his stride at the idea. He’d be able to warm up again and then be able to face Hell’s Gate without the shivers working their way up and down his spine. 

They climb over roots and wind through the trees. The forest comes alive as it always does during the eclipse as they go. But something stops him from grinning at the way his toes light up the ground. 

It’s the darkness they’re heading towards. A place with no trees, where humans have taken over everything. 

Spider finds his steps getting smaller, and smaller. And then stopping altogether. His tears flow again, silent this time. It takes Jake at least five steps to realise Spider’s not behind him. 

It must be the light from the eclipse, or the shadows created by the bioluminescence around them. Because when Jake turns around, he looks annoyed. Like he just can’t with Spider’s crying. He sighs, and Spider clenches his hand into a fist, bites the inside of his cheek to make the tears stop. 

“What’s wrong?” Jake asks, but Spider just shakes his head. 

He can’t– can’t tell him. It’s not as easy as he’s making it to be. How could he tell Jake that he’d thought he’d gotten a lot farther than he did? That by escaping into the forest, a part of him was trying to actually escape? That the five, maybe ten minute walk it’s taken to get back to Hell’s Gate has eaten away at Spider’s hope until there’s almost nothing left. 

How could he say that he thought he was being taken back to Hometree and not here? How could he, when it’d just make him look childish? 

“Nothing,” he says, his heart aching in his chest. He forces his feet to move, catching up to, and then passing Jake to get his inevitable scolding over and done with. 

It’s not Norm who meets them at the door though. 

“Oh thank god,” Nash says at the same time that Mary pushes past him. 

Spider tries to keep the wince off his face, he really does, but when she nears him he has to duck his head. Her hands land on his shoulders, a little too tight and warm against his bare skin. She rubs them against his arms even though he tries to back away. 

“He’s freezing,” she says, and Spider would be melting into the maternal worry if Nash wasn’t just…standing there. 

“Found him in the woods at the perimeter,” Jake tells them. “Search party must’ve missed him because he’d scampered into a tree.” 

The sound that escapes Mary’s lips is a strange mix of worried, confused, and a bit irritated. Spider mumbles an apology, and she clicks her tongue. “Well,” she says, “we’ll know not to try that again, don’t we?” 

It’s pointed, and Spider’s just about able to scrape a quiet, “Yeah,” out of his mouth before anyone else can get annoyed. Mary takes his hand, and drags him towards the door to Hell’s Gate. Passing close enough to Nash for him to pat Spider’s head. 

It’s too heavy and overbearing to be as fatherly as Spider wants it to be. 

“Thanks again, Jake,” Nash says, and Spider turns just in time to watch the airlock door slide shut, and Jake’s shadow heads back into the trees. 

Although nothing’s said, Spider gets the feeling that he’s in big trouble. So he does the only thing he can think of doing. He wrenches his arm from Mary’s grip, and runs deeper into Hell’s Gate. 

Maybe he could find something similar to his tree hideaway. Somewhere he won’t be found. 

Chapter Text

Jake hears the gunshots, and he’s immediately worried. 

They echo across the ocean, rat, tat-tat-tat, and his heart thumps against his breastbone. His ears flick against the side of his head, and he tightens his grip on his gun. 

“What was that?” Tuk asks as Kiri gasps, burying her little head against Jake’s hip. 

“It came from the ship,” Kiri murmurs, and the worry starts to make Jake feel sick. 

He and his two girls stand and watch the final throes of the fight, its last dying heave as Neytiri takes out the final RDA soldiers using the waves as cover from above. They’re huddled together on one of the many small islands surrounding the battlefield. Jake knows his grip is too tight against Kiri’s shoulder, but it’s better than her running into the ocean. 

The boys are missing. And the last Jake had seen of them, they were heading back towards the ship. 

“Are Lo’ak and Neteyam okay?” Tuk whispers. 

“I hope so,” Jake says, because he can’t raise any hopes. He can only watch the waves, and pray to Eywa she’ll use the water to deliver his boys back to him. Alive. 

Sudden movement at the bow of the ship catches his attention. Keen, yellow eyes catch on at least three people. He can’t see who it is from there, but they’re small enough to relieve a tiny bit of the nausea. 

“It’s the boys,” Kiri says when they get closer, and Tuk cheers, slipping from Jake’s hold to wave to them. 

He watches as their direction changes, and their speed increases. That tiny bit of hope that had appeared is snuffed out as soon as they get close enough for the bright, violent red of blood to be visible on their skin. 

Tuk gasps, Kiri cries out in fear. Jake hurries to the edge of their island, nearly jumping into the water to meet them. 

“Quickly,” he shouts over the water slapping against cold rock, “who’s injured? Lo’ak? ‘Teyam, who? Where?” 

His hands shake badly when he beckons them closer, but it’s the only bit of fear he’ll allow slip out of the ironclad grip he has on his emotions. The very same that he kept when he was shot, out in the boiling, stifling hot jungle. 

He grabs hold of Neteyam’s arm first, doesn’t concentrate on the blood that now stains his fingers, and tries to examine him. He doesn’t get further than his shoulders before his son slaps a hand around his wrist, and digs his fingers in to draw his attention. 

“It’s not mine,” he says, and Jake suddenly notices the thin shape of his pupils. The tension in his jaw. Jake’s heart drops to his toes, but then Neteyam says, “It’s Spider’s.” 

“What?” Jake mutters as Kiri wails behind him. The world suddenly turns on its axis so slowly he can feel the muscles behind his eyes working as he looks. 

What he thought was three people was actually four. But the fourth was tucked in between the first and the second that really, Jake could possibly be forgiven for missing him. It’s kind of hard to, now. 

Lo’ak’s still urging the ilu closer, and also demanding that Neteyam come and help. He’s struggling against Spider’s limp body, which isn’t doing anything to get itself out of the water. Tsireya begs the girls to keep back, practically flapping her hand at them as the other presses against Spider’s shoulder to keep him upright. 

If Jake couldn’t see the uneven hitch of the boy’s shoulders, he’d think he was dead. He’s slumped against Lo’ak’s chest, his head dipping downwards as his hands trail in the water. He doesn’t react to anything around him, not even the occasional splash of water against his legs and sides, which probably isn’t comfortable. 

The only time he makes a noise, is when Lo’ak and Tsireya finally heave him off the ilu, and up onto the island. A strangled, rasping scream escapes him. 

“You’re hurting him,” Kiri yells, and Neteyam quickly wiggles free of Jake’s hold to push her back. “Stop it!” 

“We’ve almost got him up,” Lo’ak grunts. “Bro, y’need to grab– his arm, please.” 

Jake’s breath escapes him when he catches sight of the wound. It’s gone through his chest and cleanly out the other side. But it’s weeping blood. It’s why the kids look like extras straight out of an old school slasher flick. And it doesn’t seem to show any sign of stopping. 

It makes a trail of gruesome breadcrumbs as they drag him to the flattest part of the island. He whimpers, yelps, and groans until he’s settled. But even then, it doesn’t look good. 

It’s surreal, Jake has to think to himself as he lands on his knees next to Spider’s right side. 

The kid couldn’t be hurt. Not this badly. He was a constant, nearly a member of their family. Always there, right on the edge of everything, with that mischievous smirk and burn to learn everything about his home planet. 

Jake’s vaguely aware of the sound of Neytiri’s ikran landing on the opposite side of the island. But he’s preoccupied with doing what he can to help keep the rest of Spider’s blood inside his chest. 

This can’t actually be a bullet wound through his side. At least, he doesn’t think so until he feels the hot, thick, soupy feel of blood slip between his fingers. 

“What happened?” he asks as he shoves his hands against the wound on Spider’s chest. 

The kid keens, whole body bucking against the pressure. Behind his mask, his eyes roll, and Lo’ak desperately rips a piece of his loincloth away to bundle against his back. Neteyam lifts Spider, so that the wound at the back is accessible, and both weep more blood onto the stone and Jake’s fingers. 

“We found him on the ship. He got us out of a scrape with some RDA goons and then we were escaping,” Neteyam says. “We got cornered by some Recoms, and thought we’d avoided them. But when we came up for air, Spider had been shot. Must’ve got him as we jumped in.” 

“No,” Tuk says in a tiny voice, tucking herself into Kiri’s side to hide from it. 

The kid’s chest heaves again, and Jake takes a quick glance around their island. If there’s someone, anyone that could help them, he’d take it. Even if it was RDA trash. He sees Neytiri come close, her bow held loosely and her expression unreadable. 

“He shoved me out of the way,” Neteyam whispers, with so much guilt behind it that he has Jake’s attention immediately. “It was only us and we were so close to getting out. But he pushed me over the railing first and–” 

Neteyam chokes on his tears. Lo’ak’s head droops. Tuk sniffles, Kiri’s next sob comes out strangled and the kid continues to struggle for his next breath. 

“It should’ve been me. I should be where he is but he was such an idiot–” 

Over Neteyam’s head, Jake and Neytiri share a weighted look. But before either of them can say anything, Spider’s hand suddenly grabs hold of Neteyam’s hand with surprising strength. Neteyam gasps as it. 

The kid coughs, then splutters. It’s horrible, and wet sounding, bright red spilling over his lips and down his chin as he wheezes. Around him, the others urge him to stop, even Lo’ak presses his free hand against his friend’s shoulders but Spider works around whatever’s in his throat. Pinning Neteyam with a look that sends shivers down Jake’s spine. 

“Don’t–” Spider says through a wheeze, “say that. Need t’ live.” 

“So do you,” Neteyam argues, and for an awful second, Jake thinks Spider’s going to laugh. “You need to come see where we’ve been staying. Need to kick Lo’ak’s butt in an ilu race.” 

Tears spill over Spider’s cheeks, blending the blood on his cheeks to a light pink. Beside Jake, Neytiri crouches, letting her bow fall to the rock. 

“Please, Monkey Boy,” Kiri whispers, intertwining her fingers with his and squeezing. He nods, even though another cough causes his body to shudder violently. 

There’s no way he’ll survive this. Jake knows that, Neytiri knows because she wraps a hand around Jake’s wrist and squeezes. For a second, he’s not sure why. And then he feels tears trail down his cheeks and his heart aching in his chest. He shuffles his hand until his fingers are tangled with hers, and just breathes against a familiar, gaping hole that’s widening behind his sternum. 

He keeps pressing against the wound on Spider’s front, and as the kid keeps wheezing - the sound getting quieter and less frequent - the kids tell him of everything they’ll do through wobbly voices. The adventures, the swimming lessons, the ilu rides. It’s enough to make Neytiri’s eyes shiny with her own tears. 

Spider leaves them as the eclipse falls over the land. His chest gives one last rise, and slow fall, his breath hissing through his mask and his eyes slowly falling closed. If there wasn’t such a deafening silence, Jake would think he was asleep. 

But the kids, their sobbing, pleads and wailing tells him otherwise. And Jake bundles Neteyam into his side before he flops to the ground. Kiri nearly screams, grabbing hold of Tuk to keep herself from running off. Lo’ak back curves, his shoulders hunch, still pressing the cloth to the wound on Spider’s back, wiping his tears with his other hand and leaving behind a bright red smear. 

Neytiri, solemn, and quiet, gently leans over and lifts Spider’s mask from his face. The kid’s so peaceful. Around them, the sound of battle becomes distant. They remain there, until the eclipse passes. By the time the light returns, Jake feels he’s come to a decision. 

“He was one of us,” he says, keeping his voice as steady as he can. Neytiri, crouched with Spider’s mask in hand, looks at him, her cheeks wet with tears. The kids sniffle and Neteyam manages to peel himself away from Jake’s side. “He was a Sully. He’ll be buried as such.” 

He expects some trepidation on his wife’s behalf, but after a few seconds, she only nods. And when the warriors come to get them, it’s Jake who takes Spider’s limp form into his arms, and carries him off the island. 

They bury him as they would any member of their clan. Giving his body back to Eywa. 

The white paint spread across Jake’s cheeks smells of woodsmoke and salt, but it’s a distant irritation as he and Neytiri lead the grieving party out to the reef. 

They should be doing this back home. Kiri’s argued it many, many times. But it’s the proximity that’s made her see reason. If they buried him in the forest, they’d never get to see him again. The connection between Spirit Trees doesn’t spread across oceans. 

So, they bring his body to the reef, where the fronds of seaweed and seagrass glows bright yellow in the darkness. He and Neytiri both untie the body from its carrier, and drag it down to the seafloor. His hair flies freely around his head as they settle Spider into the burial site. 

The fronds welcome him, wrap their fingers around his arms and legs, accept his body and drag him into Eywa’s embrace. The light brightens exponentially, until Jake has to lift his hand to keep it from stinging his eyes. But when he drops his hand, Spider’s gone already.

And the light dies away along with him.

Chapter Text

When Spider’s big enough to be able to go to the village by himself, but small enough to not be able to reach the ground when in the metal chairs in the cafeteria, Norm tells him something. 

A big, scary secret. Someone older than him would think it an important secret. He’s eight when he’s told. And he’s sixteen when anyone else finds out about it. Which is pretty good for a kid. 

“Right, bud,” Norm says to eight year old him, sitting him down on one of the special spinny chairs and grabbing hold of the armrests. When Norm gets serious, he stares at Spider so that he doesn’t get distracted. He leans over now and says, “I’m gonna tell you something, and you have to promise me that you won’t tell anyone about it.” 

“Not even Lo’ak?” Spider asks with wide eyes. 

Lo’ak’s only a few months old, and can only just sit up on his own. Spider and Kiri find it so funny when he overbalances and goes backwards. He’s the keeper of loads of secrets, like where Spider’s hidden his bad attempt at a bow, and how it was him who ate the last banana fruit and not Neteyam. 

“Not even Lo’ak,” Norm says. “Promise?” 

“Promise,” Spider says through his pout. He doesn’t cross his arms because he’s a big boy. But he really wants to. 

“Alright,” Norm breathes out, swivelling to face his desk. Spider watches in awe as his fingers fly across the keyboard for a few seconds, before jumping in surprise when Norm says, “y’see this guy?” 

He’s tilted the computer screen so that Spider can see it. There’s a picture of a guy, who’s glaring at the camera. He looks a bit mean; Spider doesn’t like him at first glance. It’s an ID photo, like the one clipped to Norm’s shirt. He’s got three scars trailing down the side of his head, like claws, slicing through his cropped white hair. His glare looks like it could be trying to kill the person behind the camera. 

“Scary,” Spider says quietly, eyes wide at how gnarly the guy looks. 

“That’s Colonel Miles Quaritch,” Norm says, and although Spider hadn’t noticed the hate in Norm’s voice, he’d seen it in his scowl. And knew immediately that this Quaritch dude was a bad one. “Deceased around nine years ago.” 

The small bit of worry that’d balled up in Spider’s gut eases; he won’t be meeting him anytime soon, that’s good. 

“If he’s dead, why’re you showing him to me?” Spider asks bluntly, idly kicking his feet back and forth. He really wants to hop down now, he hasn’t seen Kiri or the others since yesterday. That’s so long! 

Norm clicks on something to expand the guy’s profile, and then swivels his chair again so that he’s staring at Spider. The seriousness of everything makes Spider’s legs pause in their swinging as Norm leans forward. 

“I’m telling you about him,” Norm says after a small, shaky sigh, “because he’s your biological father.” 

He says it like it’s meant to shake Spider’s world like he would a bug’s nest. But before Spider can shrug, and say that’s okay and jump down off the chair, Norm's reaching forward to clutch his wrists instead of the armrests. 

“You can’t tell anyone. Okay, Spider?” Norm says, staring him down so hard that Spider shrinks. “Not Jake, definitely not Neytiri, and none of the kids. Not even Lo’ak. This needs to stay in this room, yeah?” 

“Why?” Spider asks, but Norm’s shaking his head. 

“I can’t tell you yet. But I will when you’re older.” 

That had been eight years ago. 

And Spider hadn’t been able to wait for Norm to decide he was older. Three years later he’d gone looking for himself, trawling through the old records in Hell’s Gate, and really wishing he hadn’t. He’d nearly been sick all over the datapad. 

He couldn’t believe he had that monster’s blood running through his body, that one man could cause so much destruction. Seeing everything listed in Norm and Max’s reports solidified Spider’s resolve to keep this secret. That no one could know that he was somehow related to this man. They could draw similarities between them, and Spider wants nothing to do with him. 

His own resolve to hate the man until the end of his days grows exponentially. Until it takes permanent residence in his stomach like a hot boiling puddle. 

The knowledge, what he’s learned, makes everything a little bit harder. 

After initially finding out, he sticks with Norm’s lie that he was found in Hell’s Gate’s nursery, that his medical records from when he was born were lost in the data wipe and no one knows who his parents are. 

It makes Jake’s analogy that he’s like a stray cat a bit more prominent, and no less painful. He sticks to the kids like glue when he’s in the village, and not just because Neytiri stares at him like he doesn’t belong. It’s easier to hide any bits of his humanity when Kiri is covering him in blue stripes. 

He acts as loud, wild, bubbly and mischievous as he can, to distance himself from the cruel, cold man he’s seen briefly in video logs. He knows it’s working because, by the time he’s twelve, he can’t see anything of himself in the videos. 

Those he finds on one long night. When he was searching through the archives for something about his Mom. And came upon a report she did about a recon mission. The guy, Quaritch, swans in while she’s talking, and somehow acts all lovey-dovey that it makes Spider sick. 

It’s an act, it’s so obvious because there’s no way someone like that could care that much. 

When Kiri starts asking about who her own parents are, Spider keeps quiet. Doesn’t even join in on Lo’ak’s speculating, trying to lighten a mood that always went straight downhill. Because it was his father who left Kiri with a comatose mom, and neither Jake or Neytiri can give their daughter a straight answer. 

It was also his father who ordered the attack on Hometree, the death of the previous Olo’eyktan, and the murder of many other warriors during the final battle. The one who’s losses are remembered every year with a clan wide communion with Eywa. 

He never goes to that, no matter how many times Kiri has begged him to. He’s always gone straight back to Hell’s Gate once the Sullys leave for the Tree of Souls. Ignoring Norm’s unreadable expression when he walks through the door. 

The hand of his shoulder is starting to feel less comforting and more confirming. Like he’s being told he’s doing the right thing by distancing himself. 

He keeps his secret, and doesn’t tell anyone about how often he looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. Searching for any sign that he’s beginning to look like his father. It’s an ingrained habit by the time he’s sixteen, a few seconds of staring at the shape of his face, his deep brown eyes and the mischievous slant to his lips. Finding nothing of the grumpy, glaring man that haunts him. 

No one’s found a picture of his mom, but he likes to think that when he grins at his own reflection that his smile is all hers. Dimples and everything. It fights back a little bit of the dread to think that he looks like her more than he does him. He’s taken her name too, although Norm comes up with an excuse when Jake asks about it. 

Something about Spider’s obvious Latino heritage (which, huh? What’s that?) and the fact that his childish antics are a relief for the dourness that sometimes settles over the labs. 

Socorro means relief. Spider clutches onto that tiny nugget with everything he has. 

A secret this big can’t stay hidden forever though. Spider knows that better than anyone. It’s just that, he always thought he’d be able to control how it’s discovered, so that a bit of the shock is tampered. He didn’t want it to come out like this. 

It wasn’t his idea to come to the battlefield. He’d been perfectly happy jumping between the roots of the mountains, with nothing to keep him from tumbling except his own skill. But Lo’ak had gotten bored, as he always does, and being antsy from getting grounded didn’t help his mood. 

So he’d been the one to suggest they head towards the west side, further towards the Tree of Souls and the battlefield. The graveyard, some clan members called it. 

Spider’d thought it would be a quick exploration, a sweep of empty trees and a few comments on how eerie it is, and then they’d be heading back home. He didn’t think it would end like this. 

The guy behind him, the avatar, yanks against his hair like the others do with the Sully kids. Like Spider’s got a kuru too, and tugging against his head will keep him from taking a flailing swipe. It stings, because of course it does, but Spider hisses at his own annoyance and takes the flailing swipes anyway. 

Until their leader, the big hulking avatar, looms over Kiri threateningly. 

“Don’t touch her!” Spider snarls, tugging against his captor's grip to try and break free. The avatar swivels on his boot, and the shape of his face stuns Spider into silence. He keeps hissing though, fueled by the pool of hatred that’s always lying dormant within his ribcage. 

Yellow eyes widen, and with a quick signal, the hand against Spider’s hair disappears. He shrugs off the other one that’s clutching his shoulder, and aims his hardest stare at the avatar as he approaches. 

“What’s your name kid?” he asks. 

Behind him, Lo’ak frowns in confusion, tugging at the hold against his hair in a weak attempt to reach Spider. He’s pulled back, and Spider shakes his head a tiny bit. They can’t fight, not unless they want one of them to get hurt. 

“Spider,” he replies, “Socorro.” 

There’s recognition in the avatar’s gaze now, and Spider clenches his jaw tight. He wants to get away, or stab the avatar through the throat. Preferably both, but he can’t do either as the avatar takes a knee. 

“Miles?” he murmurs, and the name makes Spider’s stomach turn. 

“No one calls me that,” he growls, and as he and the avatar keep talking, the confused expression on Lo’ak’s face melts into surprise. And then the dark colour of betrayal. 

Spider feels like he’s going to be sick, but he can’t do anything as he and the others are cuffed and bundled further into the trees. The rain that begins to fall and the darkness that comes with the eclipse exaggerates how he feels, but he doesn’t have the guts to say anything to the others. 

“Did you know?” Kiri whispers shakily after at least an hour. She’s shaken, and she cries out at the pain as Spider hisses when they’re tugged and the guy minding them tells them to shut it. 

Once silence falls again, Spider can only force out a weak, “Sorry.” 

He can’t think of what else to say, even though he’d practiced for this for years. 

He had entire lists of why he wasn’t like his sperm donor, whole paragraphs about how he had no attachment to the guy, and that he’d be one of the first in line to kill him if given the chance. He’d prepared for the inevitable, but not the final situation. 

He can feel Lo’ak’s betrayal burning into the side of his head. 

He doesn’t get to tell Jake and Neytiri himself; he’s hauled over Quaritch’s shoulder and taken into a human airship. 

Leaving Lo’ak and Kiri to do the explaining, if they’ll even say anything. If they do…It’s a thought that hangs over him during the months of his captivity. He’ll have to go back to more hatred when all this is finished. He won’t be able to soften the blow because it looks bad enough that he and Norm kept it from the adults all this time. 

He could be kicked out of the clan, maybe even sent back to Earth because of this, who he is.

(Little does Spider know that, when they return to High Camp soaking wet and tearful, Kiri and Lo’ak argue. 

It’s a hissed, quiet thing, on the edges of the pods with their backs to the main campfire so that they’re not heard. It’s a lot more violent than their usual ones. Their tails lash against their legs something fierce. 

“We need to tell them,” Lo’ak says, teeth bared. 

“We don’t need to do anything,” Kiri says. “There’s a reason Spider kept it from us, and we can’t betray his trust by giving it away.”

“He’s Quartich’s son!” Lo’ak hisses, his voice rising a little. “That means–” 

“What?” Kiri snaps back, golden eyes burning. “That he’s going to give away the clan’s position? Our supply location? Our plans? Just because the guy that has him trapped shares the same genes?” 

Lo’ak splutters a little, but Kiri bowls right over him. 

“He didn’t tell us, and it’s pretty obvious he’s known this secret for ages,” Kiri says. “And I think it’s because he knows what his father did. What he did to the clan, and to Mom, and Dad. He wouldn’t give everything away to someone who he’s never seen before.” 

“But–” 

“The Spider I know wouldn’t betray us,” Kiri cuts him off, glaring at Lo’ak. “So we’ll do the same.” 

She can be very persuasive when she needs to be. Lo’ak growls, annoyed but reluctantly nods his head. 

“I don’t like it,” he says finally as they’re walking back to the pod. 

“You don’t have to,” Kiri bites back.)

Helping the Recoms - which, stupid name - is Spider’s only distraction. It’s also Spider’s only way of finding the others and getting back to them safely, and his only hope of keeping out of the lab coat’s grabby hands, because it leads them into, and then out of, the forest. 

It doesn’t mean he likes it.

What he does like is laughing and jeering at Quaritch to the point he’s putting his life in mortal danger. Telling him that Jake could do something he’s attempting with his bare hands, which is wrong. He had the help of a rope to tie the ikran’s mouth shut, but Quaritch didn't need to know that. 

It’s funny using his obvious superiority complex and growing (gross) attachment to a figment of what Spider can be against him. Like his own tiny pieces of revenge. 

It’s fun, until he gets to see first hand how cruel humans can be. 

The attacks on the villages hurt to watch, and although Spider desperately apologises for actions that aren’t his, it does nothing to lessen the pain and destruction around him. He’s still dragged back to the ship every time. He can’t help anyone. 

The hunting of the Tulkun and her calf nearly turns him nonverbal, and his glares caustic when Quaritch and Scoresby practically swan back onto the deck. He knows the Colonel notices, because he flinches - although it's tiny - and his eyes darken. 

And then–

Then. The fight, the Tulkun almost breaking the ship in half with its weight, Spider being dragged away to the boats because Quaritch still has some warped view of someone who won’t ever be his son. The Sully boys dropping down from the ceilings and wiping out the guards that had Spider surrounded. 

Lo’ak, once the danger has passed and they’re surrounded by bodies, not living breathing humans, grabs Spider’s arm before they follow Neteyam. His friend’s expression is unreadable, and the grip he has is tight. 

“I haven’t told,” he says simply, and Spider’s eyes widen so much his eyebrows must disappear under his mask. “Only Kiri ‘n I know.” 

Relief is like a white hot tidal wave. It makes Spider breathless, and he clutches Lo’ak’s wrist. “Thanks.” 

“What’re you two doing, skxawngs move it!” Neteyam hisses behind them. 

Lo’ak’s nails dig into his skin. “Bro, you need to tell us about these things. Can’t keep such a big secret, not from your fa– friends,” he says. 

Spider wants to say something about being able to keep it for this long, but the sudden smattering of gunshots stops him. 

After–

After… everything. 

Spider finds he has to be useful. He’ll have to tell the adults where he comes from, and with Neteyam’s body cooling on the rocks, his banishment is looking more and more likely by the second. But if he can prove he has a reason to be here, then maybe he’ll be able to stay? 

It’s a longshot, but he’s not willing to give up every option until he’s exhausted it. 

He latches onto Jake’s wrist, and leads him back into the sea, towards the ship. Because Quaritch has Kiri. He has Tuk. And that anger is becoming really hard to ignore. 

He leads Jake to the moon pool, does as he’s told when he’s ordered to get down, and then sneaks around the expanding fight to get to Kiri and Tuk. If he can get the girls free with no one getting hurt, it could be to his advantage. And he doesn’t want either of his friends on the wrong end of Quaritch’s knife. 

But then, Kiri’s caught in the monster’s arm anyway, and Spider’s darting forward and begging him to “Please don’t hurt her!” 

“You stay away from this, son,” Quaritch says, swivelling so that he’s got Spider in his peripheral. It’s nonchalant, the way he says it, but it's the flint to a smoking tinder pile in Spider’s chest. 

“I’m not your son!” he spits, with every bit of vitriol and hatred he has. It has Quaritch flinching, the illusion he’s had surrounding Spider shattering until he’s sneering at the boy. 

Everything moves too quickly then. It’s the standoff, then the knife fight, then the boat tipping over and then–

Then Spider finds Quaritch on the bottom of the sea, twitching from oxygen deprivation. And it’s not some kind of familial duty that has him dragging his heavy, limp body to the surface. It’s that familiar hatred and revenge that has him heaving him onto the island. 

He sheds his lifejacket, and hooks his exopack out of the waistband to throw the offending thing onto the ground. At that point, Quaritch is holding onto his ikran’s neck to stay upright, and is about to lift his hand. It seems the illusion hasn’t broken entirely. The question is on his lips, Spider can practically see it. 

So he about faces, and decides to lug his entire load of self-hatred at him. The man he’d always been terrified of seeing whenever he looked in the mirror in the morning. 

He says, quietly, “I hope you find a hell that you can curl up in and die. You don’t deserve to breathe air. I never want to see your ugly mug again, and if you come near my friends, I’ll kill you myself.” 

Spider hates it, this anger, because he knows this must be what he got from him. But he has to do it, has to make the guy flinch so that Spider can head back towards the Sullys without having to worry about him following. 

He means every word, he realises when he’s halfway across the stretch of water. He wouldn’t have any remorse for burying his hunting knife into the guy’s neck. Or aiming an arrow into his eye. He’d be happy to rid Pandora of her most heinous abuser. 

When he reaches the Sullys, he still can’t make himself say it. He looks at Neteyam, his body, and feels the massive surge of grief and guilt that nearly knocks him sideways. What if he hadn’t kept it secret? Would that’ve changed things? 

The idea haunts him as he’s bundled into Jake’s side for a hug he doesn’t deserve. It hovers over him like a cloud as they commit Neteyam’s body to Eywa. He thinks about asking Norm what he thinks, but then he and Max leave, and suddenly Spider’s left behind in this sort of limbo state. 

A constant whirlwind of doubt, self-hate and uncertainty. Until he feels like he’s going to burst and let it out anyway. 

He finds himself making distance wherever he can. Getting out of the family pod to do chores, or explore the reef by himself. The family needs space anyway, they don’t need him to get underfoot. 

He does anything to escape Kiri’s knowing gaze and Lo’ak’s expectant glare. He leaves as soon as it’s light out, and returns when the smoke from the cookfire dies. He eats when he’s hungry, which isn’t often, and lets his mind stumble over all of the possibilities if he did tell them. 

Until something decides for him. Until his own discomfort at keeping this hidden for so long catches up to him. 

He’s prepping his net to fish when he makes the decision. It’s one of the few things that gets his brain to just…shut up, and something is shrieking at him to do something. Either run away, or tell them, or both. 

Spider’s about to toss the net into the water, knee deep already where Aonung would be shin deep. But something inside screams at him, and he ducks his head. He shakes, shivers, and then feels his desperate determination harden like a rock in his chest. 

He does a quick turn, leaves his net with a confused Roxto - who’s a pretty chill dude, Spider likes him - and strides across the walkway to the pod. 

It’s been a week. He can’t keep going like this.  

Jake’s voice is still noticeably weighed down by exhaustion and grief, when he greets Spider. Neytiri sits next to him, slowly chopping up root vegetables as she stares into the flickering flames. She hasn’t said anything to Spider since they came back from the island. 

He has a feeling what he’s going to say will make her hate him more.  

“You’re avoiding us,” Jake says simply when Spider can’t get his next words out of his mouth. “Why?” 

He feels his courage waning, so he says the first thing he thinks of. 

“It’s my fault,” he says. “Neteyam’s death, it’s my fault.” 

Jake sighs and puts down the net he had been mending. It’s a sad, exhausted thing, and he lifts a hand to dig a thumb against his temple. “It’s not your fault–”

 “If I told you earlier,” Spider continues, “if I had the guts to, things might’ve changed. Neteyam could be alive, we wouldn’t be hunted by the RDA. You might still even be in the fores–” 

“What, woah Spider hang on,” Jake says, standing to try to grab hold of Spider’s shoulders. Neytiri’s looking up now, a small flicker of something appearing within her gold eyes. 

“No,” Spider snaps back, putting more distance between them. “I need to say this. I kept something from all of you, for years, and if I hadn’t none of this might’ve happened. So please listen to me.” 

Jake holds his hands up in surrender as Spider tries to calm his thudding heartbeat. “Alright,” he says, “tell us.” 

Spider takes a breath, and opens his mouth. But nothing comes out. The same instinct that’s kept this buried for so long grabs control of his tongue and doesn’t let him say it. Jake’s staring at him, Neytiri’s staring at him. He needs to say something. 

Suddenly all of his bubbling, roiling feelings finally break the hold, and he’s curling his shoulders and cutting his gaze to the floor as he yells, “Quaritch is– is my sperm donor.” 

Silence, except for the heaving of his breath in his chest. 

“He’s my father. Norm told me when I was eight, said I wasn’t to tell anyone,” Spider continues. “But he’s nothing to me. I hate him, I want to kill him if I ever see him.” 

“What?” Jake says, but Spider’s not looking up. He’s clenching his hands so tightly he nearly feels the blood trickling down his knuckles. 

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted to prove I wasn’t him, that I’m not his son,” Spider continues, although already he can feel the world crumbling around him. Neytiri’s standing up and walking out of the pod silently. 

Spider tenses as she goes. 

The tears don’t fall until Jake’s pushing himself up without saying anything. Even as Spider tells him that, “I’m not him I swear it.” 

Jake walks away. 

It’s the uncertainty that sends them over his eyelashes and down his cheeks. Because he doesn’t know what will happen to him now. But it’s the relief and weightlessness that also sends him to his knees. Until he’s curled up and pressing his forehead to the floor. 

Wondering if he’ll ever escape a shadow so long and dark. 

Chapter Text

“This heat isn’t good for the animals,” Mo’at hears her daughter mutter as they collect supplies at the roots of Hometree. 

There’s a grunt as Neytiri yanks against a particularly stubborn plant. Mo’at doesn’t bother to turn around and tell her, for the second time, that she needs to twist it to get it loose first. 

“This heat isn’t good for anyone, or anything, daughter,” Mo’at tells her with a shake of her head. “But that doesn’t mean it won’t bear down on us as it always does.”

This argument is a familiar trek they have often worked through. It’s tiresome, but only because it comes from a place of familial love and care. And one that has been turned back on Neytiri when her stomach had been heavy with child.

Indeed, the heat is intense and overbearing. It’s a haze just above the ground, turning everything into a mirage. It’s also a physical thing pressing down on their heads and shoulders, made muggy by the recent rains that have caused the plants to shoot up from the ground in thirst.  

“Then shouldn’t you be in Hometree?” Neytiri says, slyly. “Where it is cool, and shaded? Rather than out here for hours?” 

“That would be nice,” Mo’at comments, giving a particularly stubborn plant a harsh twist with her whole arm. It comes up with a shower of dirt at the bottom as she says, “But I would have to leave all this work to you. And I do not want to have to come back out to recollect.” 

“You wouldn’t have to,” Neytiri tries to argue, but Mo’at angles her head down to the, now mutilated, root in her hands. Neytiri’s tail flickers as she says, “I was distracted, and would take great care with the rest of the work.” 

Mo’at leans back on her heels, smiling when Neytiri tries to brush away the fruits of her efforts so she doesn’t see the mangled leaves and twisted stems. 

“I prefer to be out doing the work myself,” Mo’at tells her, reaching down again and tugging another plant free. “It is also one of the rare moments you are not otherwise occupied by your many children.” 

“I might be, if Neteyam comes as he did before,” Neytiri grumbles. “The amount of knots I should put in my mate’s tail for allowing them into the river so soon…” 

Mo’at’s lips twitch. In another time, she would be where Neytiri is, grumbling about her own mate and their two energetic children. It’s amusing to her because Neytiri uses the exact same tone Mo’at always took when discussing her family with her own mother. 

It’s comforting. 

“Trust in your mate, my daughter,” Mo’at says, repeating what her mother had said to her. “It will stand you in good stead for the future. Having faith in the Great Mother wouldn’t go amiss either. And be careful with that root, we need it completely intact.” 

Neytiri hisses at her good naturedly, but she does take time to gently ease the root from its home. And when the heat truly does become too much to handle and Mo’at stands to head back into the cool and shade, Neytiri’s smile turns smug. It takes a lot of effort for Mo’at to not send her daughter's basket to the ground. 

They part at the main trunk, Mo’at as immovable as a river rock when Neytiri tries to take both baskets up for her. 

“I am not elderly or infirm,” Mo’at tells her. “And I am not about to fall over on the way to my own pod.” 

She takes Neytiri’s basket just to prove a point, and leaves her behind with her jaw hanging open. Mo’at’s stubbornness must be really obvious, because none of the other clan members offer to aid her. A few of the younger boys even scramble to get out of her way when she climbs up the trunk towards her pod. 

“Now,” Mo’at says, mostly to herself as she plops her basket on the ground, “that should be enough to last us this heat spell.” 

Within her pod, the heat of the day is easy to fight back. The shadows that cling to the edges and the lack of a roaring cookfire provides a respite. She always wonders why they must waste fuel if only to have hot food at the end of the day. 

Her stomach can never take it. 

She hears her mother’s voice in her head, telling her to leave the plants to dry out before attempting to grind them. Unless she wants the juice inside to escape and turn her hard work into a sloppy green substance that won’t be moulded into anything. 

Mo’at’s learned, in the years since her mother’s passing, that her advice had always been sound. Which is why she steps away from the basket, and turns to the pastes that had been gently warming by the embers of her fire. 

They’re malleable now, and smooth between her fingers as she tests their texture and consistency. She can put them into the clay pots now, the ones made by the humans as a gesture of good faith. But they’re…

“Ah,” Mo’at says, her knees creaking as she stands. “I must have used them to make the yalnabark. Or perhaps…” 

Kiri, in her willful, childlike need to learn, does come into Mo’at’s pod from time to time. It could be that, in her enthusiasm, she forgot to put the pots back in their place after having cleaned them. 

Mo’at’s smile is small, but her chest burns with fondness. That girl will be stepping up to take her mother’s responsibility of Tsakarem if Neytiri’s not careful. 

When she goes to sit again, her ears flicker at the sound of a twig snapping just outside her pod. Mo’at slowly eases herself to the ground first, knees tucked underneath her, before turning to greet her visitor. 

The afternoon becomes a steady stream of people needing her help. Most of them affected by the heat, and more than one only needing some refreshment before being sent back outside. Always with these cases, Mo’at rolls her eyes good naturedly at the mate watching over their shoulder, but provides a cold drink of water before sending them on. 

The first few instances of heat exposure arrive just as the roots and plants have dried. The first sits and watches, patiently, as Mo’at grinds them down to a powder. The second is quicker to send on their way as she’s already incorporated a second dose into the cooling balm she has on hand. 

It’s as she’s completing the rest of her mixture that she hears the whispers. 

“There it is. See? Wasn’t so bad trying to find it.” 

“No.” 

Silence. Then, “Aren’t you going in?” 

“I dunno…” 

“You’re hurting, right?” 

“Yeah, but…” 

“What?” 

There’s muttering, and the other child has to ask again. Mo’at doesn’t turn, even though she intimately recognises that voice. She can feel the stare at the back of her neck without having to look. 

“She’s scary?” the first voice asks. 

Mo’at’s lips twitch, but still she doesn’t move. 

“Momo’s not scary, look, watch,” the voice says, and the other hisses “Kiri!” 

Then there’s tiny footsteps, and a tiny body presses against Mo’at’s arm and says, “Grandmother! I brought someone to meet you!” 

“Did you, little plant,” Mo’at replies, placing the clay jar down carefully. Kiri’s eyes are practically sparkling, the tiny beads at the ends of her braids bouncing against Mo’at’s shoulder when she nods. 

“Mhm,” she says. “His name’s Spider.” 

Just as quickly as she leans against Mo’at’s side, Kiri spins on her heel and flaps a hand at the boy. Mo’at gives no outward sign of surprise, although she does blink at the human boy. 

He’s standing at the edge of the pod’s entrance, shuffling on his feet and avoiding Mo’at’s eyes by looking at everything else. He’s so small, smaller than Kiri even though he’s at least a few months older. When his name’s called, he freezes, makes quick eye contact and dips his head. But then scrambles to offer the proper greeting. 

“I’ve heard of you child,” Mo’at says before his fingers can reach his forehead. Spider’s cheeks go as red as the irritated skin along his shoulders. “You reside with the humans, correct?” 

“Yes, Tsahik,” he replies in somewhat clumsy Na’vi. He has a natural affinity for the accent, Mo’at can hear it. “I didn’t want to disturb you but Kiri insisted–” 

“You’re hurt,” Kiri says, puffing out her cheeks with a big breath. “We can’t go to the river if you’re burnt. Dad says you’d have to go back early!” 

It sounds like the worst thing to happen all day. 

“I’m fine,” the boy tries to argue, but he shrinks when Mo’at’s gaze takes in the sun exposure that’s creeping towards his collarbones. “It’s just a bit of sunburn.” 

“If it is sunburn,” Mo’at says, his shoulders rising even further, “then it will be simple for me to amend. Many warriors have come to my pod today with the same ailment.” 

“I heard they were dragged,” Kiri says, giggling. 

“Really?” Spider whispers his eyes wide. “I thought Na’vi had thicker skin than humans. How can you still get a sunburn?” 

“The light from Polyphemus is intense to all who live under it,” she says, beckoning the child over. “If we do not attend to it, that will only get worse. I know from experience.” 

“Dad had it once, right?” Kiri asks as Spider slowly inches over. “He didn’t come to Momo for cream so all the skin on his shoulders started peeling off, it was so gross–” 

“Kiri,” Mo’at says, and her granddaughter quietens. The last thing they need is for Spider to shy away. She’s only just getting the cream onto her fingers, and she doesn’t want to waste it. 

But the boy doesn’t seem intimidated. 

“That happened to Norm,” he tells them as he slowly, hesitantly, settles himself to Mo’at’s right side. “Except it was on his nose. He complained about it like a baby for weeks, but wouldn’t let anyone do anything about it.” 

“That’s because Norm’s dumb,” Kiri says, nodding as if it’s the wisest thing she’s said all day. Spider laughs, and his shoulders finally settle into a relaxed state. 

Mo’at rubs the cream between her hands to warm it, the scent of the grounded plants sinking further into the cracks of her palms. 

“Norm’s stubborn,” Spider corrects, still giggling. “He didn’t go to get help even when a bit of skin got pulled off so much it got into his nose–” 

“EW!” Kiri shrieks, clapping her hands against her ears. He giggles at her discomfort, dodging back a little when she tries to shove him. It’s a natural, instinctive movement. As if it’s been done many times before, perhaps when the children play fought. 

It’s nice, Mo’at thinks as she shuffles forward a tiny bit, to have the sound of children’s laughter fill the inside of her pod. She can’t remember the last time she’d had any of her clan stay to just talk. They always had more pressing things to do that did not involve staying for long periods of time. 

Mo’at brushes back a few strands of Spider’s hair with her fingertips, trying to access the worst of the sun exposure that’s creeping up the back of his neck. Suddenly, the boy stops laughing. She freezes, watches as his hair slips past her fingers, and waits. 

She’s half expecting him to dart away from her, but he doesn’t move a muscle. So Mo’at reaches with the fingers covered in healing cream, and begins to slowly and assuredly smooth it against his irritated skin. 

It smells like it always does, but because she’s so used to it, it’s not as potent. But a disgusted noise escapes Kiri’s mouth, and she shoves her hand against her nose as if to escape it. 

“EW!” she shouts again as Spider’s laughs. “That’s so gross, why’s it so smelly?” 

Mo’at rolls her eyes good naturedly, and takes the opportunity of a captive audience to explain. As she describes taking the plants up from the ground by their roots, her fingers swipe over the rise of Spider’s shoulder and wrap around his collarbone. 

For a moment, the muscles under her hand tense, but just as quickly they melt. And finally, the boy leans into her touch. No longer feeling as if he’s about to bolt within the next second, Mo’at scoops more cream into her palm. Already, it’s doing as it should; the sick under her hands isn’t as warm as it was a few minutes ago. 

“The smell,” she says as she swipes the last bit against his neck, right at his hairline, “is because of the small bit of yalnabark. It has that earthy undertone that cuts through the plants. But it is only…smelly, as you say, for the first few minutes. It fades as the cream works to bring down the inflammation.

“Oh,” both kids murmur, their eyes practically sparkling as they stare at the shininess of Spider’s shoulder. Mo’at’s lips twitch, but it's hidden by her braids as she wipes her hands against a used cloth. 

“It is unwise to go out anymore today,” she tells them, and immediately they pout. “The heat is getting to be too much for even the strongest of warriors, and whilst I know you’d be wise and stay within the shade, it is too risky.” 

“But–” 

Mo’at holds up a finger, and their protests die behind their front teeth. Their heads droop, but like all children, the sadness does not last. 

“Does that mean it’s too hot for Spider to go home yet?” Kiri asks, her pout sliding into mischievousness. From where he’s sitting in front of her, Mo’at can’t quite see his expression, but his head perks up. 

“It would be too hot for anyone to leave Hometree,” Mo’at says, nonchalantly putting her creams and the cloth away, “at least until after the eclipse.” 

They’re quick to leave then, with Kiri practically yanking Spider’s arm to get him moving faster. But when they reach the entrance to Mo’at’s pod, he stops. Kiri stumbles and whines but the boy turns around anyway. 

“Thank you for taking care of me,” he says, this time managing the correct greeting and meeting her eyes as he touches his forehead.

Mo’at nods and simply says, “My pleasure.” 

Chapter Text

In hindsight, someone at Hell’s Gate should’ve noticed it first. Jake’s actually kind of surprised no one did notice it, because from where he’s sitting now? It was pretty damn obvious. 

It had begun literally that afternoon, which now feels like an age ago. Has it only been a few hours? Jesus– not the point, but. It had begun when the kids returned from their few hours playing outside. Their first trip to the river unsupervised.

Lo’ak and Kiri were far too smug about it for their own good, telling nearly every person they knew that they were old enough to be without adult supervision. More than a few of the warriors give Jake a doubting look, but he waves them off with a good natured smile. 

The only reason he’s letting the two chaos children go is because he knows Neteyam will be enough to keep them in line, like the responsible big brother he is. Or at least, keep them from drowning. 

Spider dashes out of the forest as soon as they break free of Hometree’s massive roots, a wide, excited smile stretching over his cheeks. Jake wouldn’t be surprised if the boy had been waiting there for them, staying out of the morning heat and bouncing from foot to foot in excitement. 

This had been planned for weeks. 

Jake’s first glimpse of the boy sets his paternal alarm bells shrieking. Spider’s sweating, the stuff beading against his forehead. The kid never sweats, Jake’s asked Norm about it out of curiosity. It’s something about the dry air in Pandora. Or the amount of liquid the kid consumes in a day he's not sure; Norm got really science-y about it. 

The sight of it comes off as wrong. As does the boy’s slumped shoulders, and the colour sitting high on his cheeks. And the breathlessness in his voice when he says, “Hi!” 

All of it screams sick kid. But it’s not his responsibility to make sure he’s well enough to go to the river. That’s Norm’s, or Max’s, or whichever scientist has been roped into it this week. If anything, it might be a good thing. The water might cool him down and such. 

Even still, he crouches next to Neteyam just before they leave, and squeezes his hand against the back of his neck. 

“You keep an eye on them, boy,” he says quietly, chest warming at the earnest nod he gets back. “Make sure none of them drowns, yeah? And be back before the eclipse.” 

“We’ll be back before that, Dad,” Neteyam says, not quite rolling his eyes. “Mom told me there might be rainstorms later.” 

“It’s a good thing you listen to your mom, then,” Jake replies, briefly glancing up at the others inching towards the treeline. “Keep a special eye on Spider, alright? Something’s a bit off today with him.” 

Neteyam frowns in confusion, glancing between them and not seeing what Jake’s noticed. He shrugs anyway, and agrees, before slipping out of Jake’s grip and dashing after the others. He stands, and watches them disappear before turning back into Hometree. 

He knows later that he should’ve paid attention to the hot squirming feeling in his stomach that was an awful lot like dread. 

They come back when the sky is heavy with ominous grey storm clouds. He and Neytiri stand just under the roots of Hometree, listening to the rumble of thunder in the distance and keeping their eyes locked on the trees. Willing for the sight of their excitable kids sprinting for home. 

They wait until the clouds stretch above their heads and the wind picks up a little. Waiting until Jake feels he’s seriously going to lose his food in a matter of seconds if they don’t come back right now–

“There,” Neytiri whispers, and his eyes catch immediately on the kids.

Lo’ak’s waving arms, Neteyam’s steady presence at the back of the group, Kiri shouting for her little brother to not go so fast in case he slips. And Spider keeping pace with all of them. Jake raises a hand to beckon them closer, but drops it when he hears Neytiri’s concerned noise. 

That dread that’s been sitting in his stomach spreads throughout his body as he notices Lo’ak’s hands are frantic, his face scrunched up with tears. Neteyam isn’t hanging back just as support, he’s there to make sure no one falls. And Spider isn’t just keeping pace, he’s leaning against Kiri like he could trip at any second. 

When they get close enough for both parents to beckon them inside, the sky decides it’s the perfect opportunity to dump its load. The rumbling crash of thunder causes babies within Hometree to screech, and Lo’ak yelps in fear, burying himself against Jake’s side once they duck under the cover of the trunk. 

“My children,” Neytiri whispers hurriedly, pulling them close. 

Jake crouches, about to check on every single scrape and mud stain, when Spider flops onto his butt and Neytiri gasps sharply. He knows his mate doesn’t have a lot of love for the human boy, but he wouldn’t think she’d go as far as to drag their children away from him! 

“Neytiri,” he says, frowning at her like she’s sprouted another head. “Baby, what– what’s wrong?” 

“You will take the boy back to Hells Gate,” she hisses, wide eyes locked on Spider. “He should not stay here any longer.” 

“Mom what–” 

“--wait no, please–” 

“Why?” Jake asks, standing to place himself between them, his arms outstretched. “He hasn’t done something in the past thirty seconds, has he–” 

“It’s not what he has done,” she replies with a shake of her head. “He is sick.” 

“Then surely he should be looked at by Mo’at here,” Jake reasons. “Whatever he has will be made worse by that storm.” 

“He cannot. Stay here,” she hisses, tucking the children behind her. “He has the childhood sickness. And I will not allow our children to be infected at once.” 

Her words cause a commotion, and more than one person shouting for the Tsahik. Jake, utterly confused, turns to reassure everyone that all’s fine. He’s raising his arms to do it when a hacking cough escapes Spider’s mouth. 

“I c’n get back to the base by m’self,” the kid rasps, words slurring into each other and so quiet it’s nearly difficult for his Na’vi hearing to pick it out amongst the noise. “Jus’ need to…get up is all.” 

“Kid,” Jake says quietly, crouching next to the boy and reaching out a hand when Spider sways, “you look horrible. Why didn’t you stay at the base?” 

He looks worse than he did that morning, the red on his cheekbones spreading across his nose too. His eyes are glassy, staring at Jake with little comprehension. Sweat gathers at the edge of his mask, which fogs with every hot breath that escapes his mouth. A few splodges that look like rashes have spread over his arms and legs but he doesn’t itch at them. 

“Wanted t’see the river,” Spider whines, leaning into Jake’s light touch. “Thought it’d help. Why’s ev’ryone shouting?” 

“Jake, stay away from him, you haven’t had it yet,” Neytiri calls behind him. 

The kids are still squirming against her hold, he can hear their protests at not being able to get to their friend. Who’s currently burning up hot enough to power a small furnace. 

“Everyone who has not had this disease as a child,” Mo’at’s voice suddenly carries over the crowd, “step back.” 

Like the parting sea, the people back away at her approach. She crouches next to Jake without the fear that’s steeping through the crowd and reaches out a hand to feel against Spider’s forehead. The mask doesn’t impede her touch - because Norm was smart for once, and modified it to fit comfortably. He whimpers at the feel of her fingers, but doesn’t lean into it like he did Jake’s. 

Spider allows her to pick at his hands, inspecting the rashes encircling his wrist and elbow. She then tilts his chin to inspect his eyes, and then once again for her to feel his pulse. 

“When did you begin to feel ill?” she asks. 

“He had red cheeks when we went to the river,” Neteyam answers dutifully, having wrenched free of Neytiri’s grip. He stays back, but Jake can see the worry in his tense tail. “And he got out of breath halfway there.” 

“Traitor,” Spider says mulishly. 

“And when did these,” Mo’at gestures to the rashes, “appear?” 

“After the river,” Spider admits somewhat coherently, twisting his arm. “They itch, but I haven’t scratched it.” 

“Good,” Mo’at murmurs, before pressing herself up to her feet. “There is no need for panic. It is a version of the sickness we know that is only transferred between humans. Please, let us go back to preparing the evening meal, there is no danger of a pandemic within Hometree.” 

The clan visibly relax, and Neytiri reluctantly lets go of Lo’ak and Kiri. When they try to dart over though, they’re stopped by a single look from Mo’at. The kid’s still swaying like he’ll tip over at any moment. Any roughhousing wouldn’t do any sort of good. 

“He will need to rest this off,” Mo’at says. “Whilst it isn’t our childhood disease, I have a feeling it will also not be any less intense. He should be brought back to the scientists.” 

As if to argue, the thunder roars outside. Crashes like two aircraft colliding mid flight. Lightning illuminates the forest, and a few of the smaller children shriek in fear. Spider flinches and tucks himself against Jake’s side. 

“Yeah, I don’t think anyone’s gonna be getting through that,” Jake says bluntly. 

“He cannot stay here,” Neytiri hisses. Jake feels the heat of Spider’s fever press closer against his hip. “He needs to go back to the humans.” 

“Tolerance, my daughter,” Mo’at says, leaning the back of her wrist against Spider’s forehead again, “would be very useful during this time. If you do not have any within yourself, I suggest you take my grandchildren to be watered and fed.” 

“No!” 

“I wanna help Spider!” Lo’ak cries at the same time that Kiri, gently, latches onto Spider’s wrist. 

Neytiri just sniffs. 

“I’m afraid Spider is not well enough for more than one person at a time,” Mo’at says, and before the two kidlets can volunteer, she holds up a hand and adds, “which has to be an adult. Because he needs to be monitored and taken care of until we can transport him back to the humans.” 

The kids pout - Lo’ak literally puffs out his cheeks - but Mo’at isn’t swayed. She simply stares at them, until they slump. 

“What does the kid need?” Jake asks. He doesn’t like the face Mo’at makes; her forehead puckering and her eyes creasing at the edges. 

“Rest,” she says first. “This is similar to our childhood illness even if it is only seen in humans. His body is fighting off an infection, and I’m sure leaping around in the river won’t have aided his energy levels.

“His fever will need to be monitored,” she tells him, holding up a stern finger that’s nearly pressed into his nose. “Take his temperature once every standard hour. I will give you one of my notebooks if that will be useful. From what I’ve seen of this illness before, the fever should break within twelve hours, but that is only what I’ve experienced with adults.” 

“We don’t know what it’ll do to a kid,” Jake finishes. “And if it doesn’t break before then?” 

She bites her lip, and Jake’s stomach sinks. His eyes must’ve widened, or something else must’ve given it away because she holds out her hands to comfort, laying them against his wrist. 

“We will then do what we can to bring down his temperature manually,” she tells him. “And keep him comfortable. Until such time that we are able to give him to the other humans, who will have far more information on this illness than I do.” 

Lo’ak and Kiri inch closer to say goodbye to Spider for the night as they talk. When Jake pricks his ears, he hears Lo’ak going ham, as if he’s a wife sending her husband off to war, and not a friend telling someone to get better soon. 

If the situation was any less tense, Jake would chuckle, shake his head and bat his son away. But that red colour on Spider’s cheeks is beginning to look really unhealthy. 

“Take him up to my pod,” Mo’at says, “he’ll be able to rest undisturbed there. And if you need any sort of pain relievers they’re in the woven net to the left of the back support.” 

“Right,” Jake says with a nod, reaching to pat a hand against Spider’s shoulders. “C’mon kiddo. Let’s get you lying flat. Lo’ak, Kiri, best behaviour for your mom now, alright?” 

The kids grumble, and Spider follows easily as Jake leads him towards the main spiraling trunk. He can feel Neytiri’s eyes on him, and when he meets them he waves her away. Tolerance, especially when it comes to the kid, has never been his wife’s strong suit. 

He can’t really blame her though, considering his parentage. 

Jake manages to get the kid up to Mo’at’s pod without injury or problems, although the warm weight against his leg is starting to slip. Like Spider can’t hold himself up for much longer. When he glances down, the sight of the kid’s eyes fluttering squeezes his heart, and he moves as quickly as he can. 

Thankfully, the kid has some kind of cognisant thought left to wait for Jake to lay out a blanket before collapsing onto his side. And he does, bonelessly. His limbs practically splaying over the blanket. 

“Okay,” Jake says, hands twitching as he thinks of what to do next. “What do you need? Are you hot? Cold?” 

“Tired,” Spider mumbles, burying his head against the blanket. “N’ cold.” 

Within a few seconds the kid is covered, with almost his entire body hidden and curled within the warm bundle Jake piles on top. It’s a bit much, he has to say, but the kid is cold. And he doesn’t want him waking up asking for more blankets and not having any to give him. 

He’s sure Neytiri would do a better job at this. He’s always the one to bring the kiddos food when they’re sick while she stays behind and actually takes care of them. Jake doesn’t know the first thing to do, and when Spider goes quiet, he stresses. 

Should he be so covered? Should he have given him water first? How high was too dangerous for a fever, and when would he start thinking of just bringing the kid back to Hell’s Gate through the storm? 

Too many questions at once; he can feel his mind spiralling out of control. 

The quiet snuffling of Spider’s breath is enough to bat away the fear. He’s breathing deeply, fast asleep under the blankets and that comforts Jake some. If the kid was uncomfortable, he would be wide awake. 

Jake sighs, and leans against the wall of the pod, pulling his knees to his chest. Settling in for what feels like a long night. 

The first few hours are quiet and uneventful. He can tell the passage of time by the number of clan members passing by Mo’at’s pod. A wave goes down for supper, and they come back up again when the songs begin. Parents with babies strapped to their back and front. 

A while later, a group of children trip over themselves to get back to their family pods before curfew, shrieking with laughter and trying to recreate the stories they’d heard. Then, the adults and warriors follow. And Hometree falls silent. 

Through it all, Spider sleeps. He mumbles, a few times, turns from one side to the other like he’s trying to find the coolest bit of the sleeping pallet, but doesn’t wake. 

When Jake checks, his rashes have died in colour a little, but his skin still feels hot to the touch. He has a moment of panic, thinking of how he’ll be able to keep Spider hydrated, but then he spots the spare cannula chords and equipment in the corner, and some of the panic dies. 

The first time Spider’s cognisant again, Jake’s quick to catch on, lifting him up gently and helping him through the taxing switch from exopack to cannula. It’s hard enough when the kid’s able to do it himself - more than once, Jake’s seen him struggle with it until he growls and Kiri has to help him - but with only Jake to help and Spider’s body being all floppy and unresponsive? 

It’s more difficult than a physical exam. 

Then it’s a few moments to get Spider to drink something because the kid shies away from the water, and to settle him back again, with the exopack over his cheeks once more. For the next hour, the kid doesn’t move again. 

But then he shifts, and Jake can tell by the scrunch of his forehead that he’s been caught by the claws of a nightmare. 

“No,” the kid says suddenly, the word slurred and dragged out from between his teeth with a small gasp. His head twitches and he says it again, but more insistent. 

Jake, again leaning against the wall of the pod tenses. Ready to move. Spider shuffles, the blanket hiked up on his shoulder slipping and a whimper escaping the kid’s mouth. 

“Please– no don’t,” he says, and Jake brings himself up onto his haunches and crawls over to the pallet. Spider’s arms and legs are starting to fight against the blanket keeping him warm, movements sluggish with fever. “Stop it.” 

Jake’s not sure what he’s dreaming about, but that pain he always feels when his kids are hurting grips his heart until he’s sure it’ll break in two. It’s weird, but he ignores it so that he can reach out a gentle hand. Presses it against Spider’s too hot skin. And startles when the kid leans towards it, nearly tipping himself off the pallet to roll closer. 

“Please,” he whimpers, the word so quiet that only Na’vi hearing would pick it up. 

And suddenly Jake has a lapful of child, unable to fight against the paternal instinct that demands he tighten his hold on Spider’s body. He shuffles back to the wall of the pod, dragging the blanket with them and pressing his spine against the curve so that his nose is pressing against Spider’s sweaty head. 

“I got you, kiddo,” he murmurs into the kid’s dreads. 

He stays like that until the rains outside die down, and Spider’s fever breaks.